Jason Lewis: Phoenix Rising

“Yes, yes of course.” The Emperor shifted back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Forgive me… cousin . Let us talk of other business. The mighty Third will be rebuilt?”

“Yes, sire.” Martius forced a smile though it pained him. “The phoenix will rise.” Except maybe the boy. Conlan must be disciplined. The boy really had left him no choice.

“Good, good.” The Emperor nodded approval. “They did well. They saved the day. I hear they are almost as good as my Golds.”

“Almost as good as your six thousand, yes, sire.” The Golden legion had grown to double strength over the last ten years, perhaps, in Martius’s opinion, weakening them, diluting their mythos whilst mirroring the growing insecurity of their emperor. Three thousand had marched with Xandar when he first set out from Goya — three thousand golden men whose legend echoed triumphantly through the centuries.

The Emperor looked around the room. “My boys are the best, Martius.” He gestured at a stocky man in his fifties, who stood unobtrusively towards the back of the throne room. The man wore a golden cuirass on his chest: Xandar, depicted riding to victory in gleaming relief on the front. He held a legion father’s helmet under one arm. “Isn’t that right, Janus?”

Janus shifted his weight, his brows drawing together fractionally. “That’s correct, sire,” he said in a low voice.

“That’s right, yes, yes of course. My boys are the best. If we’d been there we would have won easily. Hah, maybe we should have come along? That’s it! I should have led the defence myself with my golden boys; I should have come to command the battle myself. Martius, why didn’t you ask me to come? You should have sent for me.” The Emperor’s right shoulder jerked up. His head twitched to the right.

“Sire,” Martius spread his hands wide again, “I feared that we would not have anyone left to defend the Empire. Forgive me, but I thought you would be best placed to protect the people… as always.” He risked alienating the other generals in the room with his comment, but he hoped he could count on their loyalty; he had, after all, sponsored many of them into their positions himself.

“My Emperor,” Turbis coughed gently, twisting his cloth-of-gold handkerchief in his hands. “Who better than you to defend the Empire, eh?”

Thank you old friend , thought Martius. You have not changed so much after all.

The Emperor paused for a moment, his gaze turning quickly from one general to the next. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “with the great General Turbis gone as well, who would have defended my Empire?” He smiled mischievously and glanced at Martius. “And if you had not been there, my good General Turbis, we might have lost the battle!”

He grows worse each day . Martius smiled broadly. The man is sick with power. He had always been a quiet boy, so painfully shy that he could barely speak . How does power do this to men? Why are some twisted so badly?

“As you say, sire,” said Turbis. He glanced apologetically at Martius.

“Yes, yes, that’s right.” The Emperor stood quickly and began to pace back and forth on the dais. “My thoughts are troubled though. Where is it, do you think, that these people came from? Why did they attack me? My Empire? What do you say, General Turbis?”

Turbis looked from the Emperor to Martius and back again. “Sire, I feel General Martius may have more intelligence on the matter than I — ”

“Hah!” the Emperor barked. “You are getting old, good General; perhaps you are correct.” He produced an unctuous smile. “Perhaps Martius does have more… intelligence. Would you agree Martius?”

“I would agree that I probably have more knowledge of the possible cause of the migration, yes, sire. Although it is mostly conjecture,” Martius replied.

“Well then, cousin , perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Martius formed his hands into a steeple with his elbows on the table; his eyes followed the Emperor as he continued to pace his little steps before the throne. “We know that they come from the south, beyond the borders of the Empire — ”

“Yes, yes, Martius.” The Emperor waved a hand impatiently. “I believe we could all have fathomed that.”

“They appear to share some kinship with the fisher folk of the Basking islands, such that they have some common language.”

“And where in the Empire are the Basking islands?”

Martius raised an eyebrow. “They are not in the Empire, sire.”

“Then where in blazes are they?”

Martius allowed himself a small shrug. “They are in the south, sire…” A chorus of sniggers arose from the room. “Well beyond Selesia. It is likely that the barbarians, who call themselves ‘Wicklanders’, were travelling for months before they reached our borders.”

The Emperor stopped pacing and surveyed the room, perhaps seeking the source of the derisive noises. “So why did they attack us?” His voice quivered slightly.

“I do not believe that they set out with the intention of attacking anyone, sire. As far as I can tell from the prisoners that have been questioned, they were fleeing north.”

The Emperor plonked himself sharply back onto his throne. “Fleeing from what?”

“That is difficult to determine.” Martius sensed he had the full attention of the room now; many craned over others to get a view of proceedings. “It would appear that they fled from what they describe ‘the ‘enemy’.

Ravenas leaned forward; his hands grasped the arms of the throne. “And who is this enemy?”

“We are not sure at this time, sire. I think it possible that the nomads of the southern steppes have united beneath one banner as they did many generations ago.” Six hundred years ago the nomads had ravaged the continent, almost reaching Adarna itself before their leader died mysteriously and they melted back into the vast tundra from which they emerged. “They have to be the prime suspects.”

Many men around the room nodded, whispering to each other, suspecting perhaps, as Martius did, that a new khan had arisen in the south.

The Emperor seemed to gain focus. “We need to know, I think.”

“I agree. I think we also need to know what happened to the remainder of the Wicklander people. We killed many men, but it is my belief that the majority of their people have fled back south. There have been reports from Selesia. They probably still pose a formidable threat to the Empire.”

The Emperor leaned forward. His eyes gleamed accusation. “But I thought you said they were beaten!”

“Perhaps they are, sire.” Martius spread his hands wide again. “We have no way of knowing how many remain. I would suggest that we send an expedition in force to investigate and neutralise the threat.”

Turbis coughed loudly. “I have to agree, sire. We need to know where they are, eh? Need to remove the threat. They could be rampaging through Selesia as we speak. We could muster twenty legions in little over a month.”

“I would also recommend that we send men south to fortify the cities and reinforce the garrisons,” Martius added. “It would be prudent, not just because of the Wicklanders themselves, to prepare in case their ‘enemy’, nomad or not, seeks to move north against us.”

The Emperor looked at his feet for a long moment. “Good, good.” He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “I thank you gentlemen for your advice. I have much to consider.” With that, he leapt from his seat and made to walk behind the throne.

The council leader, caught by surprise at the Emperor’s move to exit, slammed his staff into the floor twice, almost overbalancing as he did so.

“But, sire.” Martius stood, entreating return. We need to plan now, we should move now.